Misdirection
by smuttykitty
Summary: Walter is having a midlife crisis. JP still smells like riding cats. A stiff one makes it all better. Northstar  Sasquatch. Edited for betterness, and possibly sequelness. 616


Title: Misdirection

Author: Smuttykitty

Pairing: Northstar/Sasquatch

Warnings: Semi-explicit sex, swearing, angst.

Disclaimer: Marvel owns, etc, etc, etc.

This piece is a companion piece to Discontinuity. At the time of writing, I was fascinated by the idea of one person going through everything Sasquatch had, and sort of using that change as a catalyst for reaching out. There are similar themes in both. Also, they are a little florid and purple. Suitable for such angst I hope. Colossal angst!

Jean-Paul looked around his apartment, unable to ignore the sense of time passed as he noted the dust on the mantle and ledges. How long had he been in that other dimension, Svartalfheim, the land of dark elves? A year, maybe more. How things had changed. Walter back in a semblance of his own body, new members of Alpha Flight, Heather and Madison, Jeanne-Marie in the convent.

He sighed to himself, began to unpack the groceries he'd bought at the _depanneur_: A bottle of whiskey, bread, cheese, a tin of sardines, a few apples. There were a few old beers in the fridge. He felt too lazy to cook, even though he would have expected to be longing for all his creature comforts.

He cracked the whiskey bottle, poured it over ice, savored the snap and crackle in the glass. He went to sit in one of the deep window wells, perfect for perching and watching the city. His apartment was a flat in the Parisian style; high ceilings, tall windows and gilded doors. The carpet had deep pile and was blood red. He'd bought the place with some of the first money he had been allowed to spend, after he'd bought his Porsche, naturally. It was his sanctuary, a place to hide. Or so it had been those years before.

The weather was muggy and he opened the old panes to let the warm, damp air in. It felt like perfection to sit and drink and be alive. After sitting for some time, he heard the door bell. Slowly, he roused himself from his stupor. His lethargy utterly dissipated when he saw who it was.

Walter Langkowski. _Calisse de tabernak._

The scientist gave him a shaggy smile. He looked good. Handsome, fit. Pressed khakis and a white button-down shirt, cuff rolled up out of respect for the humidity.

"I was in this part of town," Walt smirked.

Jean-Paul couldn't entirely suppress his own grin. "I find that somewhat unlikely."

"Well, you don't have to, but it is true."

Jean-Paul waved his hand dismissively then gestured for him to come in. "A drink?"

Walter walked in without answering, hands in pocket, eyes roving.

"You don't like it?" Jean-Paul queried.

He shrugged, but continued to appraise. "The carpet is very...red." He raised his eyebrows in mock scandal.

"I was very young."

The big man made a skeptical face.

"I was. I liked it. It's a bit much now, _n'est-ce pas_?"

"Yeah," Walter chuckled, but with kindness, not derision.

Jean-Paul fingered the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter. Perhaps he should put it away. Drunk, he might be too susceptible to Walter's more subtle charms. Charms that had been amply returned, he could feel his desire begin to coil low in his belly. Walter had always had that effect. His body perfectly sculpted, and worse, he was funny and kind. Strangely, that was always the part that Jean-Paul had trouble with.

Ignoring his own sound advice, he poured another. Walter ambled over and took a glass down from the cupboard like he owned the place. With even less haste, he got ice and poured his drink. It was fine with Jean-Paul. He needed time to gather his thoughts, they were too scattered by far. Too many things happening, no time to put his feelings in their place. He walked back to his open window. Walter trailed behind, to lean on the opposite side.

"So, elves, eh?" Walter opened jokingly.

"Yeah." Even Jean-Paul couldn't take it seriously, and relented a hair. "And space I hear, and a sorcerer! "

"Um, yeah. And the Dream Queen. Snowbird turned me back into a man from beyond the grave." Walter lifted his drink, eyebrows raised and then drank.

"It seems like it has been quite busy around these parts."

"A little bit," Walter said affably. They chatted amiably for a bit about nothing of importance until Walter said in a different tone of voice, "So, it's good to see you."

Jean-Paul smiled conservatively. Polite, not entirely unaffected, but still impersonal. After a moment, he concurred. "_Oui, c'est bien._" Not remotely saying what he wanted to - "_Tu me manques. Toujours." _Pushed it very far out of his mind. 

Walter straightened to stand, and nearly filled the space between them. Jean-Paul tried to ignore the frisson of excitement he felt when the other man entered his orbit. He shifted subtly, to gain space. It took all his will power to keep his face unemotional when Walter off-handedly reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder.

The shock of it made it difficult to draw a breath, whether it sprang from the fact that Walter would be so bold, or that Walter was touching him. His fingers cautiously started rubbing in a lazy pattern. Jean-Paul stood paralyzed, uncertain of what he even wanted and simply stood motionless.

Walter leaned in close, dangerously close, breath lazily tickling Jean-Paul's ear. "It's very good to see you."

Against his better judgment, Jean-Paul turned turned his head so he could see the other man's face. He hoped it would tell him something more about what was happening. Walter continued to look out the window impassively, his face bright in the late afternoon light. For some reason, the clumsy offering touched him more than he cared to admit. He turned back to the window, but rested his own hand over Walter's larger one.

His pulse thrummed in his throat when Walter spread his fingers in invitation. Almost carelessly, he accepted, twining his own fingers between Walter's square ones. What was this all about? Why was Walter here? It was too soon. Whatever was happening, it was too soon. He gulped the remainder of his drink, and reclaimed his hand. Walked back to the counter top where the bottle waited.

Surprisingly, the other man followed him, like a blond shadow. Stood behind him as he cracked fresh ice. He marveled at his audacity as the scientist tried again, this time both hands. Strong fingers kneaded as a timid kiss pressed against his nape.

"Walter." He intoned, half scold and sigh, as he shrugged him off. Madness, this was madness. For so many reasons, Jean-Paul couldn't even keep track of them all.

He heard Walter exhale sharply, felt his hands slide down his shoulders and away. Good. Now, to make this quick. Drive Walter off, back to Vancouver, where he could have his mid-life crisis away from him.

With precision, he pivoted to face his team member. "I don't know what this is all about, Langkowski, but it needs to stop." He virtually spat his name out, aiming for the heart.

"No." Walter said with a steely look on his face.

"Really? I don't think it's optional." Jean-Paul replied with a cutting smile, calculated with a perfect ration of cruelty, honed by so many encounters.

Again, he presumed to close the gap, the bigger man using his size to press him into the counter or let him get closer.

"If I can take a risk, can't you?" Langkowski shot back, nearly equally cruel, knowing Jean-Paul's vanities well.

He permitted his brow to wrinkle. Risk? He allowed his face to be sufficient reply.

With a smile that reminded Jean-Paul of a naughty schoolboy, Walter roughly pulled him into an embrace and kissed him. _Maladroit_ seemed the only applicable wordTeeth knocking, too wet, too much tongue, but not without satisfaction. How many times had he suppressed thoughts of what Walt's lips would taste like, the weight of his body pressed against his? It was one of many thoughts he had forbidden himself, not just because of the relative hopelessness, but his sister as well. If she ever noticed his desire, who knew how she would react? Or with which personality? Cold, nasty Jeanne-Marie, quick to point out all his sins? Or volatile Aurora, with a temper to match his own? No matter how he calculated it, the risk couldn't possibly be worth the price.

After a moment, he wedged an arm between them and pushed the former linebacker off him. He looked straight into Walter's eyes for emphasis.

"No."

That finally seemed to sink in a little. A note of disappointment crept into his clear, blue eyes. But then he regrouped himself.

"Why not?"

"I don't believe I need to justify myself." Followed by a mirthless laugh, dusty and dry.

Walter looked at him thoughtfully, Jean-Paul steeled himself for the next volley. Walter was smart, very smart. But he wasn't a skilled manipulator. Not like Jean-Paul was.

"It isn't that you don't care for me. So what other reasons could there be?" the scientist drawled, eyes set in a way that told Jean-Paul that he was thinking five moves ahead.

"Who says I 'care' for you? Don't be ridiculous. Simply because I think you are fuckable in no way implies regard." Misdirection was essential.

Walter's smile grew. "I've heard from a few little birds is all."

"I wouldn't listen too closely to gossip." A little eye roll. Only Jeanne-Marie had ever figured it out, and it was lost, presumably with the rest of her mind, as they had never discussed it beyond that day. (AF vol. 1, 29)

"Jesus," Walter swore. "Can't you even admit that you care about me, a little? If nothing else? After all that?"

Inadvertently, he hesitated. Mentally, he reprimanded himself, but it was too late. Walter had caught the pause, would rally again. Maybe it wasn't worth the fight? What difference did it make? To continue to deny himself pleasure, who even noticed? Certainly not Jeanne-Marie. Nothing he did was ever good enough. They had just barely made amends before they were separated again. Even now that the light was split again between them, the closeness hadn't returned. Perhaps it had just been too much, too many dramas and fights.

If that was the case, why persist in saying no? And here was Walter, curiously throwing himself at him in some sort of imploding personal collapse.

And there was that pesky other thing. Love. Stupid, foolish, pride stealing love. Yes, he did feel that, too. As much as he hated to admit it.

He felt a blush of anticipation warm his belly, when he saw Walter lift an unsteady hand to run knuckle across Jean-Paul's lips.

It felt like springtime, the first sun after a long winter in his head. With more hope than he would ever admit, he lifted his face in invitation, and felt himself utterly melt when their mouths met, soft against each other. This time was better. Tongues touched with liquid glide, and it was exactly as he had hoped.

He pulled back to look at Sasquatch more clearly. Took in the fine lines of his face, the curve of his lips. It was a good face, if he were one to admit such things.

"It is good to see you, as well." It felt good to touch him, relish his aliveness. How many years had it been since Walter had been Walter? It felt like an eternity since Snowbird had killed his original form and he had been in limbo between bodies. He ran his hand appreciatively over the smooth rise of pects, and hardness of ribs. Leaned in to breathe in the scent of detergent, musk, and cologne. Felt desire expand, molten and wild.

Felt Walter's hands move around his waist, as they wound around each other, in the slow dance of physical discovery. They didn't kiss, just held on. Jean-Paul soaked up the affection, tightened his grip around the strong back, almost as if he were drowning. It had been forever since he'd made love, instead of fucked.

Eventually, he disengaged himself. Not fully, left Walter's arms draped over his shoulders. Gently, he asked, "Why are you here?"

"Is it okay if I say I don't know?"

That made him smile, and he turned to push his cheek into the hard chest. He understood all too well. He couldn't fathom what impulse had brought him here, but he was beginning to feel too greedy to care anymore.

"Yes, it is."

Walter stared out at nothing. "Everything I ever thought about anything has been destroyed. Everything I thought about myself, about life. It's all gone. My life. My sense of self. I had so many ideas about myself, and they were all wrong. Every one. That one, too. The one about who has sex with whom, you know." His voice shook slightly, and Jean-Paul felt a shard of sympathy. How hard it had been for him to realize that at 15, how much harder it must be at 40.

He didn't reply, just rested against the scientist's formidable hulk.

Walter turned Jean-Paul, braced their arms against the nearest wall. A shiver chased down his spine as the other man whispered in his ear, "I want to fuck you. Let me fuck you."

He turned his face, their lips so close. "No, later. Just stay here."

Large arms tightened around him, and he let himself get lost for a moment. But it couldn't last. Why didn't anyone understand that? What breed of masochism led people to his door? He savored the sensation, and for a moment a whole different future unfolded in his mind. But, no. He was a coward. He just couldn't let anyone in anymore, he couldn't take it.

He slipped out of the loop of arms.

"I want to, Walter. And...and, it's so good to see you, but I can't. I just can't." He was shocked by the sting of salt behind his eyes, by the brand of emotional weakness that impelled him to do this.

Walter's face grew red, and he clenched his jaw with anger. "No, you don't get to do that. You aren't the only person who has ever been hurt." Ah, Walter was playing hardball. Good for him.

A wayward bead of moisture escaped and he viciously wiped it away. God, he hated this. He was pleading now. "I know, I can't, I just can't. Please. Please try to understand."

Walter's voice was low and rough. "I came here. I took the chance, and YOU can't?" His laugh was bitter, scornful.

"It's not like that," he sniffed. He touched the other man, seeking a sense of connection. "It's not like that, you know that. I just... I can't lose you again, and it won't work. Don't you see? It never works."

"I can't believe you." He shook his head. Sat down, looking defeated.

Jean-Paul slumped down into the sofa, put his face in his hands, and tried to squelch the rising heat in his head but was unsuccessful. He felt so uncertain. He was terrified. He wanted Walter Langkowski the moment he had laid eyes on him. A golden god, like a gladiator, beautiful. Shortly there after, the man opened his mouth commencing a long relationship of insults, sniping, and general disagreement. But there had been affection, which had not gone unnoticed by either party. And here he was. Professing not love, but desire. And how Jean-Paul desired.

After a moment Walter gently drew him into a hug, chin buried into the top of his head. All these years, Jean-Paul thought, he had been paying attention. Too much emotion started to well up, it felt like his heart was going to explode. It made him feel physically ill. How he hated it. He liked it better when he was alone. So much easier.

There were no more tears. Those had been used up years ago. He had no more left, for anyone. But some dry, bitter thing was leaking out of him. Something that maybe lived where sorrow once had. He must have looked pained, as Walter was stroking his hair, saying soothing nothings. He clutched him back briefly, than sat up.

There were a few things to clear up, if this was to go any further. He glared at the other man earnestly. So handsome, hopeful even. As if anything good lay down this path.

"Don't ever fucking die again." Walter laughed, as if he wasn't being serious. When Jean-Paul stared at him with that look he knew unnerved people, he stopped.

"No one can know. And my sister, she can never know. Ever."

Walter guffawed. "You know, you aren't the only one she would kill." He glared again, then conceded, hands up. "Alright, alright."

Jean-Paul carefully climbed into Walter's lap, straddling him. "Never, ever."

The scientist lifted his had, three fingers up. "Scout's honor." Jean-Paul shot him a deadpan look. "I was never a boy scout."

"Whatever, I am sure you are familiar, _n'est-ce pas?_" Walter retorted.

Ah, here were games he excelled at. Insults and seduction. But Walter shut him up with an unexpectedly hungry kiss. It was as if they were eating for the first time in weeks, and couldn't go fast enough. Hardly a moment had passed, and they were ripping each other's clothes off. Walter taking big, moist kiss-bites down his torso, hands roughly pulling him to suit his desire.

It was breathless, passionate. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this desperate sensuality. It suited Jean-Paul fine, and he responded in kind. So many pieces to taste. A mean looking scar by his knee, it seemed sports related. His hands were rough, the callouses at the base of his palms tickled the sensitive skin of Jean-Paul's flank. They made him curious, what did Walter do to make his hands so rough? He hadn't know physics to be very rough. The delicate curl of an ear, the red-brown tan on his neck above the collar.

Before he could chose consciously, Walter's strong hand was peeling his pants down and wrapped around his cock, dragging pleasure out of him. Jean-Paul kissed with a renewed vigor as his own hand dropped to join the strange one on his cock. Showed him what he liked, wanted, then drifted over to grab Walter's reciprocating hardness.

Walt's whole body bucked as he skimmed the satiny skin of his cock. The soft sounds of pleasure in his ear raced him closer to orgasm. Walter's hand clenched around him. It wasn't about skill, but suddenly fulfilled wishes.

Jean-Paul disentangled himself enough to say, "I want to taste you."

Needing no encouragement, Walter pushed against his mouth, silk caressing his lips. He tilted his head to make space, the hardness pushed in, filling his mouth. The taste made his own cock pulse harder. They moved together, Walter fucking his mouth and finally spurting his pleasure. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling elated, renewed.

Walter shifted, and grabbed Jean-Paul's still throbbing cock. They moved their hands in tandem, and in a handful of strokes, he erupted. Sated, they lay together, slick sweat and saltiness. Jean-Paul felt as ambivalent as he had initially, but somehow the keen edge was taken off. No questions had been answered, in fact more had been raised, yet he felt content to rest with his head on Walter's chest.

Walter roughed up his hair while stretching through a yawn. As Jean-Paul let himself be caressed, he felt the inexorable slide begin. He hated being in love, and every second he remained the more control he lost. The more he would want and need.

"You can never tell. Ever." He said aloud, to no one in particular.

"Yeah."

Jean-Paul stood up, zipped his fly. He leaned over and kissed Walter roughly, stroked his cheek.

"Welcome to the closet"

Walter ran his hand over his disheveled head.

"It isn't what I thought."

Jean-Paul tossed him a bottle of Molson, as he took one out for himself. Walter grinned uncontrollably as he caught it. He smiled back genuinely, ignoring the ice shard of terror in his heart like a parasite. He didn't have time for fear today.

"No, it isn't." It was so much better and and so much worse.


End file.
